Sight Unseen
by Yuu-chi
Summary: One suffering from traumatic blindness, and one a self-diagnosed sociopath. Neither of them thought that an unlikely pair such as them would be drawn to one another. In a shifting world such as teenage-hood, is love such an impossible thing after all? AU
1. Preface

**Preface**

_Frangible_

* * *

John Watson went blind when he was six years old.

Well, perhaps a more accurate statement would be something along the lines of 'lost his vision for an indeterminate amount of time', but John finds it easier to simply shorten it down to one pitiful six-lettered word that earns him sympathetic silences and the occasional hushed murmur of condolences.

Strictly speaking, John's blindness did not stem, in fact, from an injury, malfunction or problem within his eyes themselves, rather, as his snooty therapist was quick to point out to him every single session they'd had for the past eight years, from the trauma of the damage in his shoulder. He was not _born _blind; he became it, and if he could become it, he could _over_come it.

_Thanks_, John couldn't stop himself thinking sarcastically every time her dreadfully nasally voice informed him of that fact, _I could have figured that out for myself._

Traumatic blindness wasn't by any means uncommon, but it was certainly rare enough to make John an unpleasant enigma – that and the fact that going on _ten years_ now he hadn't been able to see the slight grey of the London sky or, indeed, his own reflection; something so many took for granted.

For the first year or so after the onset of his blindness, John had been living at a dedicated medical institution that specialized in cases such his own, teaching him about his new condition, counselling him and all in all, seeking to help him adjust. John supposed it hadn't been a bad place, upon reflection, but being as he was no more than a frightened child thrust into a strange and frightening situation he really had no right to be in, at the time he'd struggled to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Both metaphorically _and_ literally.

By the time he'd been there for well over the twelve month margin, the pity funds his sob story had awarded him were dried up and he was deemed more or less stable enough to be returned to the care of his nineteen year old sister – who John privately thought both then and now, had been _less _than stable enough – and his place in the institute was dully awarded to a newer more pitiful case.

Harriet had always been a loving enough sister, but she had her own problems and her own trauma and it took less than two years for the weighted burden of John's special needs to cause her to crack and throw herself into the alcoholism that had been threatening to take her since that night three or so years ago when she'd sat silently by John's bed in hospital as he stared blankly at her face, unrecognizing and distant.

_("Harry? Harry, Where are you?")_

John didn't blame her – tried not to – and after she nearly lost custody over him when an unexpected dob-in from her ex-girlfriend led to an impromptu police investigation into her suitability as a guardian, he was packed up and shuttled off to boarding school.

He kept silent about it, even when Harriet was smoothing his blonde hair back from his ten year old forehead, suitcase by his side and her urgent voice whispering into his ear. Telling him she loved him and that she promises she'll be better when he comes home, telling him that the school would be a nice place, accommodating of his disability and he could call it home and did she mention how much she loved him, her brave little brother, her soldier?

Her breath had stunk tartly of liquor and John had not been all that sorry to be led demeaningly up the stone staircase by a new, unfamiliar hand and away from Harry, away from long nights listening to her groan into shot glasses and cry herself to sleep when she thought John wasn't listening. To be taken away from the shoddy two-bedroom apartment they shared on welfare and taken away from the whispering voices of those who knew what had happened on that night when he was six.

John Watson went blind when he was six years old, but by the time he was sixteen, he really didn't care anymore.

* * *

Once, when he was around twelve, Sherlock had managed to set the chemistry lab of his school on fire.

To be fair, it hadn't _entirely _been his fault, as he'd pointed out several times to his brother, his chemistry teacher, the school headmaster and to the parents of the girls whose hair had been singed off terribly by the hungry flames. Of course, nobody had listened to him so after the first few corrections; he'd simply stopped trying and taken the blame accordingly.

He couldn't really say he'd viewed expulsion from Whiteboard Academy as much of a punishment – for an 'elite' school, the riff-raff they let on the staff was astounding. In his brief but eventful seven months there, Sherlock had counted no less than three chronic adulterers, a gardener with a nasty penchant for young boys and a rather dull but no less disturbing tangle of inter-martial affairs among four teachers that may have made him nauseated had his sociopathic nature been so inclined to let him.

All in all, he couldn't say he missed the depressingly drab building nor the understocked science rooms that had been one of the factors behind the failed experiment that had led to the closing down of the entire C wing of the school for a month.

Regardless, that made three different schools that Sherlock had found himself unable to return to and even with his family's influence and his elder brothers constant nagging, the Holmes family was fast running out of schools willing to accept their youngest son.

The straw that broke the camel's back – as Sherlock is fairly certain, but not entirely sure the colloquial saying goes – probably came when he was nearly arrested at the sweet age of fourteen and although the family prestige was enough to keep him from actual detainment and sweep his name from the records, his parents had by then had quite enough.

Off to boarding school young Sherlock went with barely more than a pat on the back from his parents and a promise – _threat, _Sherlock translates – from Mycroft to call him once a week to check on him.

Sherlock didn't particularly mind anyway. Home, away, prison, school, it's all the same to him – dreadfully dull and unable to quiet the dismal roar of his rampaging brain which sees him through many a sleepless night.

Whatever school he goes to the fact of the matter remains the same – he's surrounded by the same blend of unobservant, unmitigated cretins whose only goal in life seems to be the pursuit of worldly pleasures and find amusement in the application of labels upon him just for being … _different. _

Not that Sherlock particularly cares, but even he has to admit it may be nice to travel down the halls without the risk of his books being viciously knocked from his hands by boys too doped up on their own testosterone and masculinity to understand the childishness of their actions.

Idiots. All of them.

None of them knew what it was like to think at such a speed that sometimes Sherlock found that he himself was unable to keep up with his thoughts, only allow them to overwhelm him until he just wanted _silence_, just wanted for everything to _stop _to just give him _one _moment of peace, to allow him _time _to recoup.

Sherlock wouldn't say he envied them – how could he? Them with their dull, boring minds and uneventful lives ahead of them – but sometimes he wished that just for one simple, blissful moment of peace.

Instead, he found enemy after enemy, a product of his frightening intellect and icy demeanour.

No matter, because even at sixteen Sherlock Holmes was more than adult enough to understand the titles and glory that surrounded each and every student that had ever felt the need to taunt him or shove a sharp teenage elbow into his side would not last and by the time freedom from the tediousness of education – what was there he needed to be educated in by those inferior to him? – rolled around, the façade of teenage brilliance they possessed would crumble like fine grains trailing through slender fingers to join the millions of other below them, no more than a trickle contributing to a whole.

_It must be dreadfully boring_, Sherlock decided, _to be in the possession of such an infantile mind. _

Because if Sherlock is anything, it's a brand of brilliant that is endlessly more lasting and he takes comfort in the fact that he's enduring and regardless of his short comings, he is not dull, he is _not _boring and even if for the life of him, he'll never know what true silence is because of that, he'd rather be forever on the brink of insanity than be not-brilliant, be nothing and pointlessly devoid of meaning in the grand scheme of things.

Sherlock Holmes is brilliant; and that, he assures himself, is all he'll ever need.

Ever.


	2. First Sighting

**Chapter one**

.

_First Sighting  
_

* * *

"Here at Northshire Establishment, we understand the weight of your… _condition_."

_Unlikely_, John thought briefly as he shifted uncomfortably in chair.

"Right."

A pause. "We know that schooling for children with special needs can be difficult, and the programs we run are among the best in the country."

_In that case, why am I only just now finding out about this place?_

"Sounds, err, good."

"At any given moment you'll be accompanied by a fellow student who has volunteered to be a guide. He'll show you around the school, teach you all you need to know about the social life and activities and explain the curriculum. Of course, during classes a qualified assistant will be with you in order to assist with audio note-taking and explain visual aids."

John felt himself slipping on his seat again.

"… Yeah."

John didn't like this chair.

Hell, he didn't the _room_.

The Headmistresses office smelled sickeningly of lavender, rosemary and an assortment of other floral fauna that had John's keen nose was wrinkling in an attempt to stem the dizzying scents from provoking a bout of nausea and perhaps causing him to vomit all over the plush carpet he could feel beneath his scuffed shoes.

The woman before him wasn't much better. Half an hour into his rundown on the school and her high-pitched voice was beginning to stir his brain unpleasantly and a dull ache in his temple had made itself known. The walls of the room were an expensive wood – John could tell via the way the sound echoed most irritatingly – and the sleek leather beneath his trousers was hard enough to get a perch on as it was without the added worry of the possibility of passing out cold on the floor simply due to the overload of senses.

_Adapted for special need; my ass. _

"- Of course you're the only, ah, unique student here at the current time, so our technique may be a little _rusty_, but please do let us know if you have any questions… Do you have any questions?"

"Ah," John gasped as he slid a little further on his seat due to the lack of friction, fumbling blindly for the wooden frame, "No, not right now."

The room lapsed into silence for a moment and John felt heat awkwardly rise in his cheeks.

He didn't want to be here.

And the Headmistress knew it.

Since she'd come to greet him at the drop off point just outside the main gate, John had tried to be nothing but polite. He'd introduced himself duly, offered out a hand in the vague direction he thought she might be standing and even allowed her to lead him up into the school building by said hand like a child – merely to please her and project an aura of acceptance and curiosity.

He wasn't accepting and he wasn't curious.

Nothing enraged him more than being treated like an infant due to his disability and he could feel all around him, from the trek through the gardens to the main office and from the short unguided journey from the door to his seat that Northshire Establishment was going to be one of _those _places.

The kind of place that made John feel like he wrong, like he was unsettling and like he'd made a serious error just by setting foot in the swag grounds, the grandeur buildings.

He hadn't liked his old school, and he hated the one that came before that; however, John had a distinct impression that Northshire, for all its talk of support and empathy, would fast become an unbearable place to live.

He certainly hoped it hadn't shown on his face as strongly as it roiled in his stomach otherwise he feared Headmistress Evans may get the wrong impression that he'd acquired distaste for her school specifically, rather than just schools at large.

Being blind was more of a handicap than John would like to admit.

"… I'll just go fetch your guide then if you haven't got another question?"

"No," John said hastily. "I'll just… wait here for a minute then." He tried to work his tired face into a smile but if the silence he received was any indication, Headmistress Evans wasn't fooled by his upturned lips and stretched grin – not for a second.

"Watson… I know it must be very difficult for you to lead a normal life given your condition, but please do understand that we _want _to help. We might not be one of the most well-known schools for the disabled, but we've earned our prestige for academics. We'll do everything in our power to make living here as normal experience as possible for you. _I _will do everything. If you ever need anything, you only need ask."

For a minute John was taken off guard by the complete honesty in her voice and the soft feeling of wrinkled finger pressing lightly over his hands, a tender touch of compassion that was a little unsettling but at the same time filled him with a strange feeling of appreciation.

"Thank you," he said honestly, pulling his hands away, but not unkindly, "I am very grateful for everything you and Northshire have done to have me admitted and the scholarships you've offered me. I would never be able to attend here without them."

He suspected that the woman may have wanted to say more, but there was the sharp creak of the office door opening and the moment passed, leaving John sitting a little uncertainly on his chair, hands inching for the cane leaning innocently on his chair.

"Sorry Headmistress, am I early?"

The speaker was male, the same age as John, going by the awkward scrape of his voice. _Athletic as well_, John decided as he listened to the confident footsteps as the visitor entered the room, _plays a sport that involves his feet a lot; rugby, but more likely football given the light weight of his steps. _

The following conclusion was simple. A student. John's assigned guide.

"Lestrade, please do come in. This is John Watson, the new student you've volunteered to assist. John, this is Gregory Lestrade. He's the captain of the school football team – nearly got us into the nationals last year."

Lestrade audibly cleared his throat, plainly a little embarrassed but none the less pleased by the praise. "It was nothing, really. The team did most of the work."

"No," John said, getting to his feet deftly and feeling the familiar weight of relief settle in his gut as his fingers closed tightly along the handle of his cane again, "that sounds like quite the feat. I used to play football when I was younger – I was rubbish at it."

"You did?" Evident surprise in his tone.

John smiled patiently. "I went blind when I was about six. I wasn't born it."

"Oh, you weren't? I'm sorry, I didn't…"

"It's okay," John assured him good-naturally, "Common mistake."

The room fell into silence briefly as John waited patiently for either Lestrade or the Headmistress to speak, rather unsure about what was meant to be happening next. He had a vague idea about being shown to his room and then being given a tour, but he didn't feel comfortable being the one to broach the subject.

The tour would need to be long and lengthy, and John always found it difficult to convey to the people who showed him around that waving their arms vaguely in the direction of one thing or another wasn't much help in the case of a blind man. Rather, he needed a decent explanation, a thorough guide and a level of understanding he found that many people his age – hell, many people period – were capable of showing.

"Erm, right then. If you're done talking with the Headmistress, I can show you around now. You're my roommate of course – part of the program and all. Shall we?"

John straightened his posture, ignoring the slight twinge in his shoulder and ankle before smiling genially.

"Please."

* * *

Sherlock was having a right horrible first day back.

His luggage had been delivered to the wrong room and judging by the alarming rattling it made when he picked it up, the idiot who had taken it entirely to the wrong hall had shattered his petri dishes as he did so, his roommate was better suited to a zoo than to a prestigious school indicated by the frankly disturbing introduction the pair of them had upon Sherlock walking in to find him snogging a girl who had no right being in their room to being with and he'd only just been informed that he'd have to make a choice between dropping advanced chemistry or advanced calculus due to a clash on his schedule.

To top it all of wonderfully, Mycroft had decided a phone call was in order to see how his favourite – and least favourite, the advantage of being the only sibling – brother was doing upon returning to school.

Sherlock had left his phone, his shattered scientific equipment and much of his limited patience behind in his dormroom about an hour ago after deciding that he'd much rather seek solitude outside than deal with the boringly mundane first-day-back issues that were popping up rather cheerfully like daisies in a field.

His only saving grace – and god, was it a slender one anyway – was the empty corner in the student centre; an ideal place to sit, regroup and people watch while he tried to establish what new and no doubt dull events had taken place during his fellow students holidays.

Less out of actual interest and more because deducing always calmed him down.

_New jumper, uncomfortable as indicated by the rash blooming across his wrists – garish design suggests present from new girlfriend, much older than him or else he would be wearing something a little more suitable for the public eye. Deduction – having an affair with the new student teacher._

Boring.

_Hair parted in the opposite direction to hairline, regrowth showing through despite the meticulous nature of the hairstyle itself – no sign of dandruff but gratuitous use of hair products. Deduction – rocky relationship with parents spiralled out of control over the holidays and is trying to reinvent herself in the new term. _

Dull.

_Lovebite on collar and another on the inside of left wrist – clearly made be a different set of teeth to the first. Deduction – four boyfriends, none of which she feels any romantic feels for . _

Terribly, terribly, _dull_.

Sherlock let out an annoyed huff and fell back against the impossibly straight back of his chair, glaring around him with a sweep of quicksilver eyes. He couldn't understand for the life of him how these people could walk around chatting, laughing and all around _existing _given how very boring their lives were. God knows, Sherlock thinks he'd kill himself if he were that bland.

He was just considering leaving the little corner he'd sequestered himself away in and seeking out a teacher to harass into allowing him to take both his advanced classes despite the clash when the door to centre opened.

Arching one eyebrow disinterestedly, Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the side, allowing burnished black locks to sweep across his forehead elegantly as he peered over to see the newcomers who had seemed to think that they may find something of interest in the sprawling centre – no doubt it was another pair of giggling girls eager to gossip with their equally giggly friends after such a long period spent separated and out of the loop of the latest scandals.

As such, Sherlock was expectedly surprised when a pair of teenage boys stepped into the room with the shoulder set of men distracted and on a mission.

Sherlock recognized the first one easily. Lestrade, the football captain and one of the few people in the school – no, _world _– Sherlock might be able to stand being around for any length of time. His rapidly lightening hair had been cut shorter still during the holidays and given the slight tint to his skin, Sherlock decided he'd been out of the country for the weeks of break. He'd broken up with his girlfriend too, Sherlock noted, the hideous golden watch he'd been insistently wearing since she'd given it to him on Christmas was gone.

Good. He'd disliked that woman anyway. She'd clearly been far more interested in snogging random men in closets than with keeping up the pretence of being interesting in Lestrade who – if Sherlock was forced to admit it, possibly at gun point – was a fairly decent person.

Sherlock switched his staring over to his companion and blinked, feeling his eyebrows disappear beneath his hair.

He was a new face in the hallowed school halls.

And he was clearly blind.

His cane was sweeping the floor before him in practised movements, a pair of dark glasses sitting on his nose to obscure his sightless eyes from view. It was interesting to note they were more a tinted shade of grey and slightly square – like reading glasses – rather than the circular black favoured by much of the blind population. Clearly, he was uncomfortable with displaying his condition so openly, even if it was obvious not only by the presence of his cane, but also by the buttons on his shirt.

And then there was the way he held himself. Stiff about the shoulder, particularly the right and with a distinct focus of weight on his left leg, as if his left was uncomfortable supporting him fully.

_Injured, but not recently. Circumstances of the injuries probably traumatic if residual effects still linger. Blind and for an extended length of time, but wasn't born so, evidenced by the colour coordination in his outfit and the blotched scrawl of his name in permanent pen on the inner side of his cane. _

Sherlock felt his lips quirk up into a completely irrevocable smirk, all thoughts of advanced chemistry VS advanced calculus fleeing from his mind as he got abruptly to his feet and swept out the door at the opposite side of the building, enjoying the sound of his chair clattering behind him as he went to find out what subject John Watson had third period tomorrow. He'd been informed that he had a vacant space to fill in his schedule seeing as how calculus was no longer an option.

_Looks like I've found something interesting after all. _


	3. Adjustment

**Chapter two **

_Adjustment  
_

* * *

John lay in bed that night, listening to the soft snores drifting across the room from where Lestrade was sprawled across his mattress, seeming rather exhausted after having spent well into the evening assisting John is settling in.

John appreciated it deeply, he truly did. Lestrade seemed like a good bloke, and seemed to actually understand that being blind meant that John needed to have a better than normal grasp on everything around him. He hadn't even commented when John insisted on being the one to lead the way to the cafeteria for supper, merely walking amicably beside him ready and willing to help if the boy made any indication of making a wrong turn.

Yes, he deeply appreciated Lestrade's eager attempts to assist him, however, that did nothing to stem the self-pitying bubble growing deep inside his chest.

Letting out an annoyed huff, John rolled over in his sheets and buried his nose in his pillow, smelling the crisp scent of fresh linin and expensive Egyptian cotton as he tried desperately to still the anxiety rushing through him that made sleep an all but impossible endeavour.

He was more than used to new schools and new situations at this point, but the sudden shift in surroundings never stopped making John feel jittery and uncomfortable. He didn't like being without his control and being thrown into a new environment managed to sap exactly that from him.

John had never enjoyed being coddled, mostly because it wasn't something that had started until he became blind and as such, he was still rather unused to it. He hated how it made him feel insecure and unable to do anything for himself. He hated that he had to rely on other people to make sure he didn't get lost or trip or get himself injured because without his sight, all these things were a real possibility.

Newshire was big. Massive. And John's memory was far from that.

All the corridors he'd attempted to memorize during the tour had blurred into one homogenous mess within his mind and suddenly with a surge of discontent, John found that he couldn't remember which hall lead where and what rooms were nestled into what wing.

Letting out an irritated groan, John pushed himself upright and tossed his covers off, pausing momentarily to listen as Lestrade let out a snuffle in his sleep, fearing he may have woken him up. There was a split moment of silence before the sound of springs creaking reached is ears and it became apparent that he'd merely rolled over in his sleep.

Letting out a baited breath John lowered his bare feet to the ground, wincing shortly at the cold press of floorboards against his uncovered skin.

It was pointless trying to sleep when he'd managed to wind himself up so thoroughly, John decided, and a much better use of his time would be attempting to navigate the empty building until he was utterly sure he knew where everything lay. He knew he wouldn't be getting a wink of rest until he had regained some measure of control over the situation.

His fingers closed around his cane and a wafting sigh of content slipped through his lips. It was a little pitiful, John knew, but for some reason he didn't feel safe without his cane. Exposed, almost. Naked.

Fumbling at the end of his bed, John managed to snag the edge of his rather ratty dressing gown and after a moment more of fingered searching he donned it and shuffled careful towards where to the best of his memory, the door lay.

The air outside the room was cold and chilly, setting the small hairs on the back of his arms on end and sent a shiver coursing down his spine as a result. He was glad he had the forethought to put on a pair of slippers before venturing out into the hall on his little expedition.

Summoning up a mental image of what he'd seen on the tour, John tried to map out the building, taking cautious steps forwards as he swept his cane along the floor. If he recalled correctly – and god, he really hoped he did – the stairs were to the right of him. Meaning, he wanted to go left. He didn't particularly fancy navigating the steps at this hour of this night.

As John shuffled along carefully he began to wonder if this had perhaps not been the best idea he'd had of late but quickly brushed the doubt from his mind. He wasn't going to accomplish anything just sitting back and letting people baby him.

Grinding his teeth he put a touch more confidence and his wavering steps, determinedly trailing one hand along a wall to get his bearing, keeping silent as his fingers breezed over slender wooden doors and brass door handles. Gaining in comfort, John chanced making his steps bigger, counting them as he went and turning sharply when he came to a corner.

He was just beginning to consider the endeavour a success when he placed one foot ahead of the other only to discover empty air beneath it.

_Shit._

Apparently his assumption on the general direction of the stairs had been wrong. Very, very, direly wrong.

Panic seized him as he floundered wildly for something to hold on, dropping the cane so it clattered loudly to the floor as he felt around for the banister, feeling nothing beneath his fingers as he began to tip forward, slowly but surely heading towards toppling down the stairs.

_He was six and his shoulder hurt and there was yelling. So much yelling… Somebody was trying to touch him but John had never wanted anything less in his life and he backed away, felt the heel of his shoe slip on the edge of what felt to his six year old injured mind like a cliff, and suddenly he was falling, falling very fast and – _

A hand closed firmly around his shirt at the very last minute and John found himself being abruptly, _painfully_, jerked backwards. Letting out a wounded yelp as he stumbled on suddenly secure footing with his arms windmilling beside him, the blonde now found himself falling backwards.

There was a grunt as he and his saviour fell in a discombobulated mess to the ground, limbs askew and pointing in every direction as the last spike of adrenaline drained from his shaken form and an annoyed voice – yes, definitely annoyed – addressed him in a harsh snap.

"Are you an idiot?"

* * *

Sherlock had not been looking for anything in particular when he ventured out into the icy hall of his dorm floor. Rather, he'd been unceremoniously booted from his room when his roommate – Anderson, such a vile creature that Sherlock found it difficult to even look upon him without cringing – discovered that he didn't have much of a taste for loud violin renditions of Bach in the middle of the night.

Sherlock himself was rather unrepentant. If anything, it delighted him that he was able to get under his new companions skin so easily. This room sharing business was dull and tedious and Sherlock was just beginning to consider whether he might call Mycroft and ask for him to arrange it so that his younger brother had no need to deal with a roommate.

He wouldn't though. Not when it meant willing contact with his elder brother. Or worse still; owing the unpleasant, griping man a favour.

Letting out a fluttering sigh, Sherlock turned the corner in a dramatic flourish of his robe and was startled into stillness when he realised that there was somebody not even a few meters away from him, heading towards the stairs.

A sharp thrill shot down his spine as he recognized the figure in the dim light cast by the moon.

John Watson stood with his cane extended before him, hair a delightful honey blonde in the dripping light of the large, picturesque window behind him. His night clothes were rumpled and his dressing gown hanging loosely open as if he had been over taken with a case of the wandering and had left his room with minimal preparation save the slippers on his feet.

Unfortunately, fixated though he was on the rather inconsequential details of the boy, Sherlock had failed to realize that John Watson apparently had little-to-no idea that he was now approaching the stairs and as the young genius watched with widening eyes, set one foot into the empty space before him.

The reaction was rather instantaneous and Sherlock blamed excessive past exposure to adrenaline for the way he thoughtlessly barrelled forward as John's mouth opened in an alarmed 'O', arms shooting out behind him as he began to tip forward and over into the stairwell, cane clattering loudly behind him.

In one deft move that defied likelihood, Sherlock reached forward with his slender fingers.

For a moment, he thought he'd missed and that his fingers would snap shut on thin, empty air as the blind boy toppled into oblivion and crashed down the stairs, hitting the sharp edges of the stairs as he rolled to a stop at the foot of the steps, bleeding, broken and bruised.

However, just as Sherlock's heart leapt into his throat, he felt his grip snag on the thin material of John's shirt and a feeling of relief spun through him as he jerked the pair of them violently back with no regard for personal space or safety as they fell into an uncouth pile of limbs, sharp elbows sticking every which way.

A sharp spike of pain flooded through Sherlock's side as he hissed out a harsh curse as his vision went white for a moment before he finally realized he'd managed to land on John's cane, the sharp grey handle digging rather unpleasantly into his gut.

When he finally managed to get his breath back Sherlock gasped out: "Are you an idiot?"

A loud rasping gasp sounded above him as John struggled upright, stumbling when his feet caught on the mused rug below and sent him toppling back down again; thankfully not on Sherlock this time.

"Sorry, sorry!" John stuttered. "I just… thank you, err… Are you alright?"

There was a near tangible awkwardness in the pained, embarrassed lines of John's face as he stared to the left of Sherlock's face and – _oh_.

John's eyes, in the pale tint of the moon, were revealed to be a mix of foresty shades, dark bramble brown with tendrils of foliage coloured green extended in thin veins throughout the amber, giving the most appealing quirk to otherwise plain shaded eyes.

They were lifeless.

Completely uncomprehending and dull of any reaction despite their warm shade.

Before Sherlock could stop himself, academic curiosity made him lift up his arm – the one not laying pinned beneath his side – and gave a short wave, watching with fascination as John showed no recognition that Sherlock's pale digits were arcing right in front of his line of vision.

_Fascinating_.

_His eyes seem completely uninjured and remain seemingly unblemished, coloured normally rather than white. As his loss of vision was incurred at a young age – again, apparent by the cane – and he still bares the remnants of long healed injuries, it can be concluded that the loss of sight stems less from actual damage to his eyes, brain or optic nerves and more from a self-imposed reaction to childhood trauma – shortly, a coping mechanism._

_Now, judging by the habits that linger from a past of being able to see, it's apparent that his blindness must have reared around eight years ago, but no more than ten. He's sixteen, now so that makes him between six and eight when loss of vision was incurred. Possibly – _

"Are you alright?" The repeated question, anxious now, jerked Sherlock back from the racing of his mind and he once again became aware of the fact he was sprawled inelegantly out on the ground with John Watson leaning worriedly over him, hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder as if concerned he may have done permanent damage to the slender teen.

"Yes, fine." Sherlock cleared his throat professionally, stood up in one fluid movement and dusted imaginary lint off his pants. After a second he awkwardly asked in return; "you? Are you unharmed?"

John blinked in the pale light of the moon before realization dawned and he scurried to his own feet. "Yes, I'm alright it was – blast it all, my cane…"

John was scrambling with unsteady fingers along the ground, narrowly missing his cane with each swoop. Sherlock hesitate for just a second before stiffly bending over to retrieve it from where it lay just outside of John's reach and pressing it firmly into his fumbling hands.

There was an awkward moment where neither of them were certain what to say but after a second of uneasy standing, John slowly extended a hand towards Sherlock, shifting just so that thin lines of darkness fell over his face and cast his sightless eyes in shadows.

_Clever_, Sherlock thought with a raise of his eyebrow as he shook the offered hand.

"John Watson," he said as they shook. "Sorry and, uh, thank you."

"Sherlock Holmes and you're welcome." A brief pause. "May I ask what you're doing wondering around in the darkness at this hour?" He requested, as if he hadn't already figured it out.

A faint tinge of colour warmed John's cheeks and he said, as nonchalantly as he could manage, "I could ask you the same thing."

"My roommate has temporarily evicted me from our shared space," Sherlock replied easily, noticing absently the way John's brow rose.

"At one in the morning?"

"We had a disagreement."

"About?"

"Violin."

"How so?"

"Anderson didn't find it an appropriate means of concentrating so late."

"You were playing it in the middle of the night?" John asked in surprise and Sherlock shrugged before remembering that John couldn't see his response but couldn't be bothered summoning up the energy to elaborate.

There was a moment of silence before John awkwardly stepped back – away from the stairs – and gestured back down the hall with one hand, "I should probably get back to bed before my roommate starts to worry."

"Do you know the way?" Sherlock asked, the question slipping out instinctively out of natural born curiosity.

"I'm fine!" John snapped harshly, taking Sherlock aback for a second before the other boy blinked and quickly corrected himself with, "Sorry, it's late and I'm tired. I know the way back on my own."

Sherlock stayed quiet and John quickly disappeared off down the hall towards his room.

For a moment, he just stood silently in the empty hall with the distant sound of tree branches brushing along the aged roof. Then he smiled, the briefest lift of the corner of his mouth – closer resemblance to a smirk – as he turned and walked back towards his own room.

Interesting indeed.


End file.
